The Tales of Truths Without Closure Drarry Drabbles
by lesbiannalovesdrarry
Summary: 'The truth. It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution.' Maybe it is the same with love? -A collection of Drarry drabbles, not in order, and not all of them how I imagine their story-
1. Chess Pieces In A War (Shooting Star)

**Drarry drabble.**

 **Podfic is here:** **.com e chess-pieces-in-a-war-shooting-star-drarry-drabble/** **(replace spaces with slash signs)**

 **Warnings: Pre-slash, basically?**

Streaking light, lighting up the darkness,

Draco closes his eyes, and wonders if love will ever come his way, like that shot of light streaking through the sky. He wonders if bright smiles and warm hands will find his. He is lying on the top of the Hufflepuff house table, the wooden surface digging slightly into his back, but he doesn't mind. This is what he likes doing when he can't sleep; watching the night sky from inside the castle. He never can sleep, these days.

The Great Hall is warm and feels kind, when he lies here, night after night, watching the galaxies move, watching the shooting stars, and wondering if he really wants to continue down this destructive path. It's dark thoughts, but it's... it's okay. Because just wondering, and wishing on secret stars doesn't do you any harm, does it? It doesn't do any harm when you in the dark of night wish you didn't have to be dark. Because everybody has a job to do, and this is his, and if he doesn't, if he doesn't, his world will crumble, and his mother, his father, Draco himself... They will be ripped apart. Forever.

"Hey Malfoy," a soft voice says. He looks up, and a pair of bespectacled green eyes meet his. No venom in the voice, no malice at all. Is it a trap? Potter _has_ been watching him quite closely.

Potter isn't holding a wand. Draco's own is lying inches from his hand, and he knows how to defend himself if necessary.

"Hi," he drawls, replying to Potter's greeting, and wonders if Dumbledore's enchanted the stars shooting across the ceiling to really give you what you wish for, even if you didn't know what you were in for when you wished for it. Like a Mirror of Erised. Is it a fire he desires? Is it letting go of everything special, and especially letting go of stupid dreams of bright smiles and warm hands?

It doesn't feel like it is. Nor does it seem like fighting is what Potter wants.

But still... Even if Potter isn't looking at him in a threatening way, even if he isn't holding a wand, the kid beat him up when they were fifteen. Okay, Draco had deserved it, but it doesn't mean he has to _like_ it, does it? He grasps his wand quickly, and points it at the skinny, raven-haired boy, as he, in one fluid motion sits up, so to be better positioned.

"I don't want to fight anymore," Potter whispers; it's almost a whimper, and he wonders if another star just heard his prayer.

His wand trembles.

He doesn't know, that just a few months from now, he'll be standing at the top of a tower, and look into a pair of weakened, old eyes, who offers him a way out of the darkness. He doesn't know, that his wand will tremble, and that he will lower it. He doesn't know that green light is going to flash anyway, and that the extended hand will never reach his. He doesn't know, that it was never up to him, in the end. He doesn't know, that he and the emerald-eyed boy in front of him, are nothing but chess pieces in a war.

He lowers the wand, and looks Potter in the eye.

"Me neither."

He wonders if Potter will mind if he takes his hand. Another shooting star, and he wishes for it.


	2. Liar (Truth)-Truth (Liar)

**Drarry Drabble**

 **Warnings: Angst/Romance. Set during OotP, no particular scene.**

Harry Potter is warmth and sacred hands, the liar says.

(Harry doesn't remind him that he is cold and carries something within him that is anything but sacred.)

He is glittering fingertips and beautiful lips, the liar says.

(Harry doesn't remind him that the fingertips are destined to be griping a wand and the lips for uttering fatal words, becoming a killer of the killer.)

He is booming laughter, the liar says.

(Harry doesn't remind him that he is also dry tears and nerve-racking sobs.)

He is life and hope, and full of light, the liar says.

(Harry doesn't tell him that sometimes he recognizes more of himself in the red eyes of a murderer than he does in the mirror.)

But Harry never used to be this way, hesitant to tell the truth, to remind. Not until The Liar. Not until he started believing in lies.

(For that's all it can be, right?)

The one thing he does believe though, when looking at the liar, is that Harry loves him.

(Harry curses his fickle heart for falling, when all that is in his future is blood and death and green light)

And the liar loves him.

(Harry's heart is black and broken and used and battered but it still fucking beats, and while he can, while the liar loves him back, he will love the liar, god dammit!)


	3. Admitting to Fancying Potter's Butt

**Genre: Humor**

 **Prompt: Sentence - "I just really like big butts,"**

 **Warning: Drunk Draco. Basically.**

Getting drunk in the Slytherin common room can be fun. If, at least, you're one of the people who hasn't gotten too wasted, and can watch people make fools out of themselves. For some reason, Slytherins lose all their cunning when wasted, but keep all their ambition.

Getting drunk and admitting to the whole of the Slytherin common room that you kindasortamaybe worship Harry fucking Potter's butt is not something I'd ever recommend.

Especially not if the conversation out of the blue starts like this:

"I just really like big butts. Y'kno' big, hm, girl butts. …female butts. Yeah. Can… Can I have 'nother bottle?"

I mean, when you announce something like that, especially after you've been ogling a shirtless Theodore Nott doing a lap-dance for Millicent Bullstrode.

"I… Hm… This Whiskey burns, like Fire… Get it? Cause it… it's Firewhiskey!" At this point my head was spinning uncomfortably; and all I could think about was-

"How drunk d'ya think Potter get on Fi-Fi-Firewhiskey? Maybe he'd… he'd… Give me a lapdance…"

I should have been able to still have a little sense in me. Anyone with a little sense can see that it was stupid. You do not utter words like that in the Slytherin common room.

It gets worse.

Because according to what Blaise told me then, I was sitting with a wistful look in my eye.

"Shut up, you… Blaise. I merely think he has a great fucking butt. Greater than anyone else's! His butt is… orgasmic."

And I went on to talk about safer subjects, like…

"Quid…itch! Have you SEEN Potter on a broom? When 'e leans forward in a dive, I swear, 'e's sex. You know what I wanna do? Him. Against a broom- broom shed. Ride 'is broom. Or have 'im ride mine."

My name is Draco Malfoy, and I am currently wishing for the Knight Bus to trample me down. And not just because of my hangover.

No, that wish is because of the fact that Blaise Zabini is standing above my bed looking down at me and with a smirk asking if I want him to convince Potter to play a round of Quidditch.

"I do not fancy Potter's butt!"

I totally do.

"You totally do."


	4. Ferret Caused Malfoy to Seduce Me (YES!)

**Warnings: 8** **th** **year. Draco being a seductive prat.**

 **Hagrid is raising a flock of Hippogriff foals, and the 8** **th** **years work with them in Care of Magical Creatures class. Draco is a prat. Harry is great with Ferret.**

 **Prompt: Sentence - "Funny how this thingy is always ready to see you"**

 **A/N: I realize the stories in this fic doesn't really qualify as 'drabbles', least of all this one… However, I like the word too much to let go of it now, even now that I've been corrected. Besides, I couldn't help myself writing it this long! Apologies, enjoy anyway…**

"Funny how this thingy is always ready to see you!" were the first words out of Malfoy's mouth when he saw that Harry was stroking the soft feathers of the Hippogriff. It had a color that Harry was shameless enough to peg as 'blond'. The creature glared angrily at the blond wizard, and Harry could not help but laugh, though he tried to do so as softly as possible - no matter what Malfoy said, he wasn't sure the strong hybrid animal trusted him fully. Even if it was just an a little over seven months old baby. With feathers, wings, beak and a horse body. Just a baby. Yeah.

Hagrid had raised this new flock of Hippogriffs from birth (Buckbeak had proved to have a very high stamina, when presented with a female of his own kind) and had introduced them in class. Most of the 8th year students had welcomed the animals with far more excitement than any of Hagrid's other projects in the past; maybe it was something about how helpless the foals were. They were so entirely dependent on love and care; Harry suspected Professor McGonagall had wanted the older students to see what it was like to truly care for something, in a way that wasn't about whether a psychopath was going to kill them.

This particular Hippogriff - Ron had dubbed it 'Ferret', since it loved eating chunks of ferret meat, at played around with fur, and he had argued that its resemblance to Malfoy's hair made the name appropriate - was now nuzzling itself against him, its razor-sharp beak scraping against his throat. It made him a little nervous - which was stupid, he'd defeated the darkest wizard the world had ever seen.

He kept his head still though, not jerking away.

He was pretty sure the creature was marking him or something; it REALLY didn't like its namesake, who now was drawling something about the quality of his own Hippogriffs feathers, thereby offending Ferret.

"You're _so_ pretty, my dear Hippogriff!" Malfoy was saying. Some would perhaps say that he was, in some way, trying to make amends to the father of the infant, over the insult he had spewed to it five years ago. Well, Harry was the only one saying that. He was the only one still thinking about every little thing Malfoy did.

Ferret's head jerked angrily towards Malfoy, its playful nature that had been apparent in it before Malfoy had arrived and called it a 'thingy' (Ferret had bounded towards him at the beginning at the lesson; he didn't even need to bow, and had flapped its wings excitedly). In the process its beak almost cut Harry; he felt the cold, metal-like texture of the edge. It cawed loudly, angrily, and started moving towards the blond boy, apparently intent on punishing anyone who _dared_ say other Hippogriffs were prettier. His fist curled into the fur on Ferret, both as a warning and an outlet for the fear that had gripped him. It turned its orange eyes back on him, snapped the beak impatiently. It reminded him of how Malfoy used to snarl. Malfoy never did much these days, except watch the world, as though slightly amused over how it could go on. His jabs at Harry weren't even that terrible anymore.

Ferret seemed to calm down after a few seconds, and Harry realized he was smiling to it. The thought of Malfoy's snarl seemed to be oddly cheering.

Ron was noting things down about Ferret's behavior - ("doesn't like Malfoy.") and Hermione was inspecting its feathers, both to make sure of its welfare and to write down everything about the physical development of the animal, as Harry started feeding it the ferret meat.

After an awful lot of ridiculous thoughts such whether Hippogriffs preferred smiles over blank facial expressions (or vice versa) or whether Malfoy would mind if Harry touched his hair, class ended, Harry said goodbye to Ferret, rinsed off the blood on his hands with a Scourgify spell and Hagrid started to follow them back towards his hut, but-

"Potter," a low voice said behind Harry. He turned, pretending not to recognize the voice. But of course he did. Even if he hadn't just heard it talk about the feathers on a magical creature, he'd always recognize it.

"Can we have a chat?" Malfoy asked. He wasn't drawling. He was looking serious, as always, and Harry couldn't see his eyes properly, so he couldn't tell whether he was plotting an attack or really just wanted a chat.

"We're going to the castle Harry," Ron said. Harry knew he was being given the chance to talk to Malfoy - which, Ron knew, he'd been wanting for quite some time. Ron didn't like it - of course he didn't - but it was better than nothing.

"Alright," Harry replied, as a reply to both of them, and hung behind with Malfoy.

Malfoy wasn't drawing a wand. Harry certainly wasn't going to, even if Malfoy did. He was done fighting. Fighting only lead to scars, to burning fires, to dying and dead friends.

However, though Malfoy wasn't drawing a wand, he was stepping closer, gripping Harry's arm in a surprising grip. Not harsh, or too tight - just surprising, because it was new. New, and weird.

He kept himself still though, not jerking away, just like when handling a Hippogriff. Who would have known that hanging around Ferret would prove useful in this way, he asked himself silently, as Malfoy's breath grazed his Adams apple, his breath hot and heady. Harry's obsessive mind noted that Malfoy smelled of lime and earth, a delicious scent. He had the strange impression that Malfoy was smelling him too. Not an entirely unpleasant thought.

Malfoy stepped closer. Harry still just stood there, breathing slowly, heat filling him slowly.

"That creature isn't the only thing that is ready to see you, you know," Draco whispered hotly into his ear. Harry made the corner of his lips twitch into a smirk, knowing Malfoy would sense that action. "Malfoy, we need to-"

He wasn't exactly sure what had prompted Malfoy's outburst. Maybe it was a joke. Though… There was a certain _hardness_ pressing against his thigh now, now that Malfoy had come even closer, their hips barely touching. God, he hoped Malfoy couldn't feel his response.

Maybe, he thought, the reason was the thought of _fire_ and _broomsticks_ and _sweat_ , the thought of an _enemy gripping your hand to save you._ Or _maybe_ -

"Fine, yes, we need to talk. But not here. Cause there's a thing that wants you too much, in a way that doesn't involve talking… And I'm afraid that thing is me. So, the other thingy better get out of your way on Saturday. I don't want that bloody chicken interfering on our date to Hogsmeade."

Malfoy wasn't asking him out. He was stating that he was going to take him out. Well. Harry didn't have much choice then, did he? Nevermind that he didn't really mind not having a choice. Nevermind that he probably did have a choice. Nevermind that he could push Malfoy away and claim that he was disgusted, nevermind that Malfoy still talked condescendingly to him in classes, nevermind that Malfoy never before had stood so close to him… _Actually_ , Harry thought, _scratch that last_. He _definitely_ wanted to remember how close Malfoy was right now.

Harry allowed himself a shy, yet hopefully sly smile. "Are you sure you can survive spending all that time with me?"

"If _you_ can calm down one of those goddamn creatures, _I_ can probably survive you," Malfoy said with a shrug, and, leaning in, bit Harry's earlobe, smirked at the small gasp that escaped the boy…. then - he left.

And just like that, Harry had a date with the strange Slytherin, along with a raging boner.


	5. I Will Burn With The Phoenix

The world is being cradled by a Phoenix, or maybe the world _is_ a Phoenix and we are forever being born and dying and reborn and dying. None of us understands this, of course, not fully. But I feel like maybe I understand at least a little of it. Because if it isn't the world that is a Phoenix, it is Harry that is, and the two aren't really that different. Because when Harry looks at me he is my world, and when he doesn't, he still is. Like the world always is the world, Harry is always my world.

Other people would point to how he always survives, like the Phoenix never truly dies, but I wouldn't. Harry has lost so many little pieces of himself along the way, little pieces left to die, yet his laugh is still healing like the tears of a Phoenix. His voice is still calming like the music of the Bird of Fire. And he is still the most beautiful thing, even with scars and cuts and bruises and broken bones, as he looks at me and whispers my name, and in his voice my name sounds so right.

"I love you Draco," he will sometimes say, clutching onto me, as though scared I will be the one to burn up, or spread my wings and leave. As though that is not exactly what I'm scared of him doing. As though he is not doomed to end up being killed. One day or another, my world will be destroyed, for he will be destroyed.

But I will be by my Phoenix's side when that happens. Because I love him too.


	6. Turned Inside Out and Asking

Turned Inside Out And Asking

 **Prompt: Sentence - "Is it too soon to ask you to marry me?"**

 **Warning: Sexual. No. Not just sexual. This is smut. Don't be fooled by the cutesy prompt sentence. I wrote this for a true smut lover, so I decided to try to make something short, but smutty. Alright. Read on, but you have been warned!**

x

Draco feels slick and luxurious, even though neither of them has conjured any of the delicious honey-scented oil they use for their longer sessions - and that is what this is, a long, long experience of being stretched and stretching, filled ("Feels.. ssss…. God… FUCK!" euphoria filling him just like Harry does )and filling, licked and licking, sucked and sucking (and Harry's hands in his hair, clutching onto him, is so good he might as well be the one being sucked) and teased and pulled to the edge just to be yanked back, for another searing kiss, for another delicious scrape of teeth (and fuck, he can't think, can't help whimpering, moaning).

x

His voice is scrambling words together, he has no control of the noises he makes, and he loves hearing how Harry's own guttural moans and squeaks are out of his control too. They are so undone ("HARRY!) he is surprised they haven't come ("Draco, Draco, Draco!") a billion times already, just in these last few hours (and the sun is going down and Harry's glowing in the light), though he wouldn't put it past them if they had (and god Harry's beautiful).

x

Harry's teeth biting his nipples, flicking them with his tongue, his hand pulls and tucks at Draco's cock, and Harry _knows_ just how Draco likes it, when he enters him, _knows_ just how to pound and thrust to hit that spot that makes Draco see stars and- ("OH!")

x

He feels Harry shudder, as his tongue finds the puckered hole, stretched and leaking with come and lube from their past adventures this day and _licks,_ and _licks_ , and _enters_ and just _enjoys the feeling of Harry_ , just like he's done for hours, turning his boyfriend inside out, and feeling Harry enter him, until they are more than just bodies pressed together. Feeling Harry turn him. (And he loves him and he tells him with his tongue and lips and hands and body and his words and voice and his heart)

x

Harry is pulling him to his lips now, not harshly, but lovingly, though his grip is rough and he's breathing and panting heavily and must be just as sore as he is now, and their lips meet, and he keeps whispering the words to the needy lips that aren't frantic, and Harry is reciprocating the words just as softly.

"I love you, Draco, fuck, I love you," he tells him, and Draco feels his limbs wrapping around him, and tiredly he falls into the embrace. "Love you, I love you so much," Draco says, not as a reply or even as an echo to Harry's words; the words are from his heart.

They fall silent, their breath evening. It's a silent agreement that they'll not be making more love tonight, they're sore and exhausted and happy.

"Draco?" Harry's voice asks

"Mhm?"

"Is it too soon to ask you to marry me?"

Draco falls quiet, his heart feels fluttery, sort of as though some annoying, adorable butterfly is dancing around in there, singing, "OF COURSE NOT, JUST ASK ME TO MARRY YOU, PLEASE!" and next he's thinking about the box in the desk drawer, and he feels a bit disappointed.

"So, so cliché, Potter. You ask me to marry you, right after making love?" he says instead.

Harry's smiling quaveringly, and runs a hand through Draco's blonde hair, brushing it off his forehead. "I notice you didn't answer me?" Draco can hear the beloved voice tremble slightly.

He laughs softly. "You haven't actually asked me anything, really, now I think about it. Really, Potter, I must admit that I thought you had more class than that!"

"Oh. Right." Harry replies, his face blank, but his eyes seemingly a bit wet. Fuck. He said the wrong thing. He sighs. Though- the thought of the box apparently being put to use anyway cheers him up. And then he's saying it. "Harry. I bought you a ring. I was planning to ask you at sunrise. You know how I love how you look in the first rays of sun."

"So, are you going to ask me?" Harry asks, now. He sounds suspicious, and sad.

" _Accio engagement rings!"_

Harry's happy laugh resounds throughout the apartment.


	7. The Task of Saving a (Non)Enemy

**AU: GoF, the second task. The one Harry would miss the most is his school rival.**

 **Genre:**

 **POV: Harry's, narrative in 2. person.**

Fighting your way up through the dark waters. Fighting to stay conscious. Don't have time to wonder why it was _him_ of all people. You're just moving, fighting, don't let the lights popping behind your eyes blow you into oblivion, don't inhale the water, but everything is so mind-numbingly cold, and the weight of you and your two deadweights is so heavy, and you can't concentrate on any of these things, because his hair is moving eerily in the water and all you can think is _so close, please, we're so close, don't let us die, God, up, up, light, light, air, please, so close_ , and then you're clutching both of the blondes closer with your fingers that now feel frozen and arms that feel disjointed, and your legs are kicking wildly, and you can't _think_ at all. And then - air, blessed air, and you're gulping it in, and finally you can find yourself thankful that the effects of Gillyweed has worn off, because God, nothing has ever felt better. And then you realize that the little girl is swimming clumsily towards her older sister, the one who should've been rescuing her, but now you get the sense that it's the girl who has saved the sister from her grief.

And then you realize that Draco Malfoy is still holding onto him. You look at him, and smile, because he looks confused and wet and speechless, and you don't know what else to do, because getting into a brawl sure doesn't seem right. And besides, his wet hair is sticking to his skin and his lips are shining with the water, and it's hard not to smile.

And now he's asking you why you saved him. And you tell him the truth.


	8. The Butterfly and The Mosquito - Or Not?

**Drarry drabble (actually a drabble this time - exactly a 100 words!)**

 **Inspired by a line that haunted my mind for days until I wrote this. "He always wondered where mosquitoes went when they died".**

If Harry was a butterfly, Draco was a mosquito, he had thought miserably, as he watched the messy-haired boy from afar. For Draco was dark, unwanted, loathed. Surrounded by blood-suckers. Suckling on whoever more power than them, bowing powerlessly to power. He was one of them.

Nothing could have made him think that _Harry_ felt _he_ was the mosquito and Draco the butterfly. But when he found out, he knew he didn't have to worry about dying a mosquito's death - because someone thought he was a butterfly, and he'd fight to believe that too, until his very last breath.


	9. Fuck Off (So I Don't Have To Lie)

**Drabble: Draco has kissed Harry, Harry corners him a few days later, and a conversation ensues... Dialogue!fic.**

"What do you want?"

"I don't know."

"Why kiss me, then?"

"I don't know."

"Did you want to kiss me?"

"Fuck off."

"You did, didn't you?"

"Fuck. Off."

And fuck off I did. I left.

Though I still thought he was only trying not to lie to me. Because he hadn't given me a clear answer; no yes, no no.


End file.
